Everything Nathaniel thought he knew about Bess Pickford was hastily rearranging itself in his head.
Not a widow, never married. But going by Mrs. Pickford as his sister’s chaperone—supposedly a distant relative of his stepmother’s? Or was that also false? Did Lucy know?
Who was Bess Pickford?
It did not escape him that she was only confessing this much because she had no idea who he was either. God, what a tangle.
She was watching him, and though she bit her lip, the line of her shoulders had loosened as though she’d set down a heavy burden.
A lie. A secret she hadn’t wanted to keep—and Nathaniel could understand why. He was honest enough to admit that if he’d known this about her that first day on the riverbank, he would have judged her harshly. He would never have listened to her appeal on Lucy’s behalf. He would never have welcomed Bess into his home.
The knowledge of what he would have missed sat cold and heavy as lead in his stomach.
He had to say something. Something that would not give away the fact that he knew her in any other context—that he was, in fact, the Duke of Ashbourn.
Nathaniel didn’t question why he was so determined to maintain his anonymity. All he was certain of was that he wasn’t ready to give this up. Not yet.
“You should not have to be alone,” he told her. It was the truest thing he knew.
“We’re all alone, in a way.” Her smile was sad. It tore at Nathaniel’s chest. “Except for these brief moments of connection.”
“Not you.” Nathaniel shook his head. He didn’t want that for her. “You should have everything you want.”
A home, a husband, a family, a life. Love.
It killed him that she didn’t already have those things; that he couldn’t be the one to give them to her.
Why was she so alone? What in God’s name was the matter with all the men in Wiltshire?
“Mmm. Everything I want. That was your promise to me, was it not?” Her smile brightened, her brown eyes glinting with the memory of the last time they’d been together in this room. “Anyway, I have all that I need. Perhaps you won’t believe it, as I have been so demanding with you, but outside of this room? My friends would all say I’m a very contented person.”
He watched her as she paced restlessly about the room, tidying as she went without seeming to realize she was doing it. Nathaniel thought about the way she continually put aside her own feelings to help Lucy.
He remembered the first time he’d seen Bess, on her knees in the mud holding a young stranger’s blood inside his body with her own hands.
She’d even cared for Nathaniel when he was wounded—and attempted to care for the man she knew as The Berserker when that same wound reopened.
“Just because you don’t ask for much,” he said slowly, “that doesn’t mean you’re happy. It only means no one is taking care of you.”
Bess felt winded. “How could you possibly know that? You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what I look like beneath this mask. You don’t even know my name.”
That was why she’d told him about her past, about her desires—and the relief of being honest was still flooding through her.
Even if it was a shabby, stilted, sideways sort of honesty, it still felt good.
But then he had to go and devastate her by seeing her far more clearly than she’d intended.
“Give me a name to call you, then,” he said roughly.
She set down the damp linen she’d been absently folding, aligning it beside the basin and pitcher. He’d washed before she came up, while she’d been learning how to use the sponge Madame Leda provided her. So that she could take all of him inside her, without fear or consequences.
Shivering, Bess spoke to the scarred wood of the table. “You could call me…Elizabeth.”
It was a very common name, she told herself, heart racing. It wouldn’t be enough to give her away.
“A regal name,” he said quietly. “Fit for a queen. It suits you.”
She snorted, reassured. “If you think so, then you truly don’t know me at all.”
